


It's my only music and it's enough

by broken_ankle



Category: Original Work
Genre: French Resistance mentions, I mean, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Or Has It?, Period-Typical Homophobia, and festers, but luckily there are people who challenge mindsets, i mean the French Resistance was a challenge to the status quo wasn't it?, not supposed to be accurate, not that it has any influence on this story, that bleeds into people's mind, war mentions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24183646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broken_ankle/pseuds/broken_ankle
Summary: Christophe knows he can't have whom he wants. He's right, but one night will be enough.
Kudos: 1





	It's my only music and it's enough

**Author's Note:**

> I read too many WWII-era fics and books, so this happened almost against my will.
> 
> I know nothing of WWII except for what I studied in school, English is not my first language and I gleamed how kisses and the likes work from fics. Don't hold my disinterest against me.

He thinks about it, idly, like one would think about staring at the sun for too long: you would like to, but you know you’ll never be brave enough, because it’ll hurt. Christophe looks at Grey and thinks about everything that he’d like to do to him, and everything that he’d like Grey to do to him, but it’s just that, thoughts. He knows he’ll never be brave enough to lean closer, to snatch the lit cigarette between his lips and replace it with his own mouth. He’ll never be brave enough to corner the Englishman and lean him against a wall. He knows Grey will never let himself be manhandled, and he surely will never kiss him in the dark, like two teenagers whose parents don’t want to be together.

"Chanticleer."

Christophe tries to repress his thoughts, shutting them in the same corner of his mind that holds this type of dangerous fantasies, but tonight it doesn’t seem to work. Perhaps it’s because their efforts paid off, because the invasion succeeded, or at least arrived to them. Maybe it’s because he sees something in Grey’s eyes, a flicker of light that’s more than the ever-present cigarette reflected in that darkness.

All previous thoughts of cowardice evaporate when Grey gestures for him to follow, away from the festivities, into the cool night air, behind the barn. He follows the Englishman, walks trance-like behind one of the few people he can really consider a friend, and all his thoughts are on what he could do to ruin their friendship. Like kissing him, or falling to his knees, lowering his pants, or simply sharing the same space for a dance. The possibilities are endless, and it makes Christophe dizzy with want.

He is so engrossed in his own despicable thoughts than he doesn’t notice Grey has stopped until his back is to the wall lining the property, until there’s a hand on his jacket and the cigarette is nowhere to be seen anymore.

"Chanticleer," Grey repeats, whispers, and it’s nothing like the other times he said that, nothing commanding about it, just a name like any other to call a lover. Because now it’s sure, Christophe isn’t the sole harbouring perverted desires in the secret of his mind.

Christophe swallows, his mouth dry with the sudden possibility of it all becoming real, of it all being in his reach. Grey’s other hand reaches his head, fingers brushing the curls there with the utmost reverence, the same soft care in his eyes.

Christophe has a moment to realize what’s happening before he’s being kissed, chapped lips on his own, a faint taste of smoke on his tongue when he pries open the Englishman’s mouth. The kiss lasts for a small eternity, laughter from the house ebbing in and out of focus on the wind, the material of Grey’s shirt soft under his hands, his unshaven cheeks a prickling sensation that warms Christophe to his core.

Grey’s hands slip to his hips, nothing more than a quiet reassurance, another point of contact as he slides closer, presses Christophe into the wall, kisses him tenderly still, after all this time, in the middle of a war.

Christophe lets himself be cherished, lets himself feel loved, lets Grey slip a hand under his clothes and do what the both of them ache for.

And when everything is over and Grey presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth, Christophe lets himself smile for their stolen occasion, knowing there will never be another.

The morning after, when Christophe opens his eyes on the floor he shared, he’s alone. Grey’s not here anymore, like a dream dissolved in the morning.

It’s Mann that tells him Grey received orders to follow the advance, to infiltrate yet again behind enemy lines, to weaken the Germans before the bulk of the army can follow.

The war is over in their little village in France, it’s over for the Résistance, it’s over for Christophe.

It’s over for Mann, because what good would serve a saboteur without an arm?

It’s not over for Grey. He has to do his part until the Union Jack soars above Berlin.

Christophe won’t see him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Should anybody care, the title is from a (translated) line of the poem _Non sa più nulla, è alto sulle ali_ by Vittorio Sereni, who was a war prisoner during the Second World War.


End file.
